Gemotions

“Bloody hell,” muttered Finn, his Irish brogue thick with fury as he slammed the newspaper onto the bar. *“A pale imitation of traditional fare.”* His own mother’s recipes, denigrated. He felt a throbbing pulse in his temples.

He poured himself a hefty whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. The usually inviting aroma of the pub, of warm beer and brewing stew, now seemed like a taunt. The room was empty.

He saw his reflection in the mirror: flushed face, eyes narrowed. It was all a lie, every single word. The critic didn't know anything about good food.

He threw the glass against the wall, smashing it to a thousand pieces.